Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's unnerving.

The golden glow of this city. The artificial silence of it.

This beauty, which feels more fake than real the longer she stares.

It gazes back at her like a gilded illusion, like staring at molten gold through a thin veil of water; nearly certain that if she were to reach through, close enough to touch, it would all abruptly glitch out of existence.

These are the words Wuk Lamat would use to describe how she feels at the moment. Paltry though it may be, acknowledging it on its own felt as though she were staring down a different beast altogether, especially if one were to consider too the grand bulk of the emotion that spawned just beneath it.

Wrestling with the desire—the need—that clambered deep within her, that begged her to come to terms with how desperately she wished to eradicate it all, all at once. 

And call her stressed, overwhelmed, devastated still at the abruptness of all that'd just occurred. From having lost her father, her nursemaid, her brother, in what has since felt like one fell swoop after another.

Call it this frisson of unease, this layer of tightly restrained grief from having to shove back down everything she'd felt so far into something more compact—manageable—because she of all people didn't have time yet to mourn her loved ones the way she'd wished. Didn't have time yet to come to terms with having lost any of them before she had to move forward. To bear the weight of saving the people of her country. Her land. Her home.

To bear the weight of salvaging, protecting and still leading onward all that was still left.

Call it—whatever measure of apprehension that she has had to so far push away in order to stand firm in this moment, in order to face what remained on the horizon still with strength.

Call it still what it was: a horror show, playing out before her eyes; an ongoing theater of unease that ran down deep into each one of her friends veins. For how could any one of them be at all unaffected by this, when it impacted them all so very deeply? And then to see it brought to life like this, like puppetry in motion—only to know that what awaited beyond this was a future far worse still, then anything they could ever name.

Yet to go down this route was a necessity still. For Erenville. For Cahciua. For Wuk Lamat, even still, most especially.

Because these phantoms and ghosts living out their day-to-day in joyous wonder, replaying every glorious moment in bliss, when their very existence had been built on a wellspring of aether from those who could not fight back… its wrong.

Her instincts scream that all of this—everything—is downright wrong. Blasphemous, even. A mockery of life, a desecration of spirit, at its very worst.

Yet Queen Sphene, for all her apparent wisdom as the Queen of Reason, does not deign—no, is not designed rather—to see it that way.

And worse still, her intentions—misguided as they are—come accompanied with a will and desire to see them through.

Is it any wonder then, how even still, despite them remaining at odds like this, she feels a connection to her so deeply?

As Wuk Lamat gazes out across the golden expanse of Living Memory, she feels a part of her being tremor with the feel of something fragile and worn, nestled there inside her chest. Deep within her core—a flicker of heartache, the sensation acerbic and bitter, like dry ash in the back of her mouth.

She hates this feeling. Hates feeling like she's fumbling, hates this feeling of not knowing if what she's doing still is right, is fair, is within the bounds of what's meant to fix.

Telling herself how none of this is real, even if the current reality before her would still try to convince her otherwise.

Not one of these people are real—not in the ways that mattered. Not in the ways that meant anything anymore. Even if they still breathed like they were. Even if they still responded, interacted, laughed and smiled like they did.

Even if they were to touch her, even if to her better senses they were to radiate any semblance of genuine warmth… it did not change anything. They were all nothing but a memory. And while all memories indeed deserved to be cherished... 

Some—she'd come to understand—could not continue to live on like this.

Here in this place that was cloaked in all that seemed like dreams and whim and fantasy; here, where the illusion of all good things… had been built on the foundations of cruelty and death. 

This—was not a life. It never had been. 

It never was.

And that's the hardest duty to have to bear. To know that she would have to tear it all down, piece by piece. Even if she was fought tooth and nail to the last.

Because some things, even with their best of intentions…

could not simply be left to exist.

Not when it would take away life from all who existed apart from it.

"Lamaty'i."

Wuk Lamat's breath catches when the wind all but whispers her name, an endearment uttered so softly, in a tone that felt so specific to her.

And the silence that follows is deafening—enough that she might have convinced herself she'd fabricated the sound out of the blue. Yet for all the souls that milled about this place, and for all the music that runs like static through the city streets, somehow—in this little corner of the plaza, away from the rest of the world—it feels terribly quiet.

And she's almost afraid to look back to see the vision made real; her usual brash strength replaced by a sensation that lingers brittle beneath her skin, prompting her hands to clench, nails biting into the flesh of her palms, shoulders tense, teeth grit and nearly bared.

She doesn't dare look back, not because she can't.

But she doesn't know what she'll do if she sees her.

"Lamaty'i." The call comes again, and Wuk Lamat only shakes her head, every ilm of her frame run woefully stiff.

'Stop calling me that.' She wants to say, but the words do not leave her throat. Instead, what comes is a steady resolution to deny her altogether.

For both their sakes, she tells herself. For the future they both deserve to see. 

"What are you still doing here?" Wuk Lamat asks, the words uttered low with a tension that runs deep. The words stick like molasses to her teeth, a tremulous feeling snapped like a rubber band run taut across brittle bones. "Have you not said your piece enough, Sphene? I thought you'd gone to prepare. Have you come to taunt us with anything else?"

And Wuk Lamat does not deign to spare her a glance, her eyes fixated instead on the glimmering lights of the city, swallowed up by the fabricated hues of gilt and glow. It's all so bright. So bright and so fake and so unreal, enough to make her question herself once more, wondering once more if this was a dream, now more than ever before.

It makes her afraid to even blink.

But such stern resolve does not erase her from reality. Does not erase her from her reflection, even, as she catches in the corner of her eyes this image painted into the waters beside her. As she gazes down into the canal, and can just barely see the semblance of her, in the same way she remembered her. The way she'd been designed to be. Her pristine hair and the trimmings of her holographic dress, never out of place. Her eyes this delicate shade that shone like peridots; the hues of yellow and green, situated somewhere in between sunshine and meadow both.

Even now, she feels this pull to her. Even now, when they are at route to the end. When she has chosen her side and chosen her path—when every choice made had never really been her choice at all.

If things were at all different, then maybe… then—!

And Wuk Lamat bites her tongue, the motion so sharp she swears she tastes blood. Rust and copper that fills her mouth, coats her senses, reminds her of herself.

Reminds her of what this is, and what it was due to be.

Because nothing—nothing had changed after all, even despite the both of them trying.

Their ideals were always meant to be at war from the very beginning.

Their futures were always meant to be at odds.

And maybe that is what makes her so resentful after all. For where this had led, resolve and reason meant nothing.

The choice had been taken from them completely. 

As Sphene in return says nothing, and the silence bears down on them both. As somewhere just behind her, Wuk Lamat hears the sound of chatter, of children's feet running up and down the pavement, of popcorn merchants barking out their wares. As somehow, still around them, the world keeps moving, programmed to play on in a static reality that didn't truly exist.

An artificial wind courses through the square, ruffling Wuk Lamat's hair, and she sees in the corner of her eyes the way Sphene shakes her head.

And she could almost imagine the look on her face. The dark furrow that's settled between her brows, the way genuine guilt would reflect upon her visage, the very notion of the humanity that she wants to believe still exists within her being.

If things were at all different, then—then maybe they could have found a way around this after all. She allows herself the thought. 

But as it stands, duty and resolve prompts her to stand still.

She knows it is not that easy after all.

"I'm sorry." Sphene whispers, the words so soft, so barely soundless on the wind. "I wish—if only there had been another way, then perhaps… perhaps all of this never needed to happen." She murmurs, as though unable to even continue. "If only you could understand, if only you could see, why I can't—"

Wuk Lamat shakes her head. "I understand enough. I understand more than perhaps you even give me credit for. But understanding—in this case, changes absolutely nothing." She states, her words firm, despite the grief that channels true beneath it. "I know you know this. And whats worse, is if you were still capable of seeing the truth for yourself, then I know you'd feel the same as I do. You're right—this does not have to be this way."

But neither one of them will accept anything otherwise.

And Wuk Lamat did not need to clarify what she meant by that. Did not need to speak it aloud, worthless as the words would be to her… yet in her heart, she'd had hope that Sphene, even as she was now, might understand. Even now—despite the profane reality of everything… she'd hope her words might break through, enough that she might yet have the resolve to stop this too.

But it is a hapless wish, and acceptance of anything otherwise was not an option. Not here. Not like this. Not for this.

And so Wuk Lamat gathers herself, closes her eyes, breathes in. Lets the silence of the moment wash over her, the pained understanding of what needed to be completed, what needed to be done.

If next she opened her eyes, and this last lingering thread of her was gone, then fine.

Once more, that was how it would be.

And she would make her peace with that too.

She was doing it for her too, after all. For Sphene's people. For Sphene's memory.

This is not what she would have wanted. This is not what the Queen of Reason—what her people, in her absolute wisdom—deserved.

This was an insult to who she was, and if what she knew of her had ever existed—in the ways that were real—then surely she would try to do justice by the memory of them regardless.

For her. If just for her.

One last time. 

"Lamaty'i."

And so Wuk Lamat hears the name uttered once more. Hears—feels the whisper all around her. And maybe she imagines the way her hair shifts. Maybe she imagines the brush of a hand against her cheek. A flicker of warmth that was never really there at all.

Not real, not real, not real at all—remember?

Never real, from the very beginning. 

She knows this. She does. And when next she opens her eyes, there is a pang of ( knowing, heartache, bitter understanding, acceptance ) inevitability. 

Because once more, Wuk Lamat is alone.

And only her resolve remains.